A Taste of Torah: Weekly Commentary from the
JTS Community

This week's commentary was written by R Rabbi Lewis Warshauer, Senior Rabbinic Fellow

The month of Elul is a time for preparation for the High Holy Days. Some
industrious hosts and hostesses are already making tzimmes and putting it in
the freezer. Other kinds of preparations are being made, too– studying,
thinking about and discussing the themes and meanings of Rosh Hashanah and
Yom Kippur so that these holidays are not just repetitions of prior years.
Even our weekly Torah readings, seemingly disconnected from anything to do
with the High Holy Days, can be read through Elul eyeglasses.

A passage from this week1s parasha is usually connected not with the High
Holy Days, but with Passover, where it is found in the Haggadah:

My father was a wandering Aramaean; he went down to Egypt few in number and
there became a great and mighty nation. The Egyptians treated us badly and
enslaved us. We cried out to the God of our fathers. God listened to and
brought us out of Egypt and into this place — God gave us a land flowing
with milk and honey.
(Deuteronomy 26:5–9)

This passage can be seen in at least three ways: its simple sense in the
context of the Book of Deuteronomy; its meaning in the Haggadah; and,
perhaps, its meaning for Rosh Hashanah. This Biblical passage constitutes a
remembrance; because Rosh Hashanah is termed Yom Hazikaron, the Day of
Remembrance, it is worth exploring what link there might be.

The Biblical context is the instruction to the Israelites of what they are
to do upon entering the Promised Land; they must bring their first–fruits to
a central location (later understood as the Temple) and present them to God
with this speech of dedication. The speech is a remembrance. It reminds the
speaker, and the community, of who they are and how they got where they are.

The Passover context depends on a word–play. Instead of My father was a
wandering Aramaean, the Hebrew words Arami oveid avi are interpreted
to mean
An Aramaean tried to destroy my father. The word Arami indicates Laban of
the land of Aram; the word oveid indicates not wander but destroy; and Avi,
my father, indicates Jacob. The Hagaddah uses its interpretation of this
Biblical passage both to explain the background to the Israelites' migration
to Egypt and to make the point that the persecution of the Israelites
started not just with Pharaoh, but with Laban, Jacob's own father–in–law.
For the Haggadah, the passage beginning with the words Arami oveid avi
functions as a remembrance or reminder. It is the key to opening the memory
bank of the Haggadah.

The Sepharadic commentator Ibn Ezra argues against the Hagaddah's
interpretation. He explains that arami oved avi does not mean that Laban
sought to destroy Jacob. He rejects the midrashic play on the word oveid and
advocates for the plain meaning of the phrase: my father was a wandering
Aramaean. Who is that referring to? Jacob — Jacob, who wandered in the land
of Aram, and as a wanderer was poor. Thus, continues Ibn Ezra, we are being
told that our ancestors were poor and that the land of milk and honey is not
a legacy from them — they were too poor to give a legacy — but a gift from
God. The Ashkenazi commentator Rashbam suggest a similar explanation,
except that in identifying the wandering Aramaean he goes all the way back
to Abraham. The conclusion of both commentators is the same. Your ancestors
did not give you this land; God did.

It is instructive that this Torah reading, containing as it does the
remembrance speech of Arami oveid avi, should happened to be read in the
month that precedes Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah is misleadingly called the
Jewish new year. What it actually marks is the creation of the world, as
celebrated by the Jewish people. One of the themes of Rosh Hashanah is the
world belongs to God, not to humankind. Our use of it is a gift. Our
settlement of it is a privilege, not a right. The purpose of Rosh Hashanah
is to remind us of God's work of creation, and also to remind God that God
created us and should therefore have mercy on us.

The statement of the pilgrims to the Temple and our prayers on Rosh Hashanah
serve a similar purpose. They are designed make us feel insecure. They aim
to make us understand that we are not entitled to benefits; we hold our
lives, our lands, and everything else on a lease from God, not by freehold
deed. Insecurity usually leads to distress. Yet in this case, perhaps we can
understand insecurity as the antidote to false security. False security is
the notion that we can take all we have for granted. Constructive insecurity
is the realization that tangible holdings are temporary. Perhaps this is
what the High Holy Days are about, in part: getting rid of the illusion that
benefits are ours by right, and realizing a more sober view of a world in
which we are dependent on God's gifts. A view of the world that is cleaned
of illusions of the permanence of good things does not have to lead to
pessimism. Rather, such a world–view can help us appreciate those good
things when we have them and to come to terms with the world when we don't.

Shabbat shalom.

The publication and distribution of the
Taste of Torah commentary has been made possible by a generous
gift from Sam and Marilee Susi.